


Ninniach (Eowyn)

by kathkin



Series: A Few Notes in the Song of Creation (a Lord of the Rings Dæmon AU) [16]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 11:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15662745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: To know a dæmon’s name was to know a Man or Woman’s soul. It made you vulnerable. Better, then, that the dæmons of children have no names. Better that they be nameless and safe until they are settled and strong. Éowyn did not feel strong and nor did her dæmon. She was twenty-four years old and she felt a hundred.Éowyn's dæmon left his name on the battleground.





	Ninniach (Eowyn)

**Author's Note:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

The Ringbearer was not what she had expected.

But then – what had she expected? His deeds were as great as any warrior from her people’s songs but she had known he would not be a warrior. He was of the same kindred as Merry – as Pippin – valiant, perhaps, strong for their size, but not warriors.

He was small, and soft-spoken, and carried himself as one who had put down a heavy burden and can still feel it on their shoulders. He wore his dæmon’s true name openly, like a king, but his people had no kings.

His face was disarmingly young, though she knew from Merry that he was older then her by many years. His dæmon was a moth, delicate and downy.

What then was he by the measure of her people? Perhaps a scholar.

“What sort of name were you thinking of?” He turned away from the wide volume he had borrowed to stir his tea with his good hand. His other hand, still bandaged, he kept close to his body. He did not yet have full use of it, she suspected, but he did not seem troubled by this.

“I know not,” said Éowyn. She stood by the window, gazing out upon the white city. It was a lighter place now then when she had first come. Laughter and song had returned to its houses. She could often hear birdsong where before there had been none, the very birds and beasts fleeing the approaching shadow.

She had been swept up in the enthusiasm of her new halfling-friends. Now that she was there, taking tea with the Ringbearer, she was regretful and deeply self-conscious.

She was indebted to Frodo, a debt the likes of which she had never known before. The whole world owned him a debt. And here she was, asking him to aid _her_. She had told him, gravely, that she would return the favour but he had waved his hand and told her to think nothing of it.

“Do sit down,” he said.

Éowyn down sat. She accepted her tea. Her own dæmon, her polecat, remained upon her shoulders, close to her body. “You do not have to help,” she said.

In a way he did, for she could not read the strange Elvish script of the book that lay before him. But she did not _need_ an Elvish name. She could choose a name in her own language; it was only that she didn’t want to.

She had no wish to forsake her own people or her own tongue. It was only that she wanted a name entirely new to her.

“Well,” he said, “would you want a High Elven name – or a Low one?”

Éowyn looked at her dæmon but of course he was no wiser in this matter than she was. “I do not know the difference,” she said. “Which is it that the Men of Gondor use?”

“Low Elvish, I should think,” said Frodo. He finished stirring his tea and took his cup from its saucer. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.” He spooned a little tea onto the saucer. “It’s entirely up to you.” He nudged his saucer, with its drops of tea, to his dæmon, who settled on the rim and drank, snowy-white wings fluttering contently.

It was such a peculiar ritual that it momentarily sent all of Éowyn’s other thoughts out of her head. “Does your dæmon eat?” she said without thinking. She had noticed that Merry shared a morsel or two of all his meals with his dæmon but had thought it a singular oddity. Her own dæmon hadn’t eaten since they were children. There was no point to it.

She had been rude. “I’m sorry,” she said, but he was laughing.

“No,” he said. “Gentian – doesn’t have the right kind of mouth. He likes sweet things. Which is it to be, then?”

“Low Elvish,” said Éowyn.

“Good, because I didn’t ask for the other book,” said Frodo. “I thought it might be rude.”

“Are all halfling’s dæmons named for plants?” she asked.

“Not all,” said his dæmon, raising his tiny face from the saucer. “Most of us, though.”

“Your dæmons are named when they settle,” Frodo asked, toying with his spoon as he spoke. “Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s so.” For the first time, her dæmon, her newly nameless dæmon, hopped down onto the table. He sat eying Gentian curiously but not quite daring to investigate. “My dæmon was given his old name by the king. My parents died when I was young.”

“I’m sorry.” Frodo folded his hands atop the book. “So did mine. I can’t imagine losing them before they even gave Gentian his name.”

Éowyn had been almost grown herself before learning that outside Rohan dæmons were given their names at birth. It was still strange to her, and frightening. To know a dæmon’s name was to know a Man or Woman’s soul. It made you vulnerable. Better, then, that the dæmons of children have no names. Better that they be nameless and safe until they are settled and strong.

She did not feel strong and nor did her dæmon. She was twenty-four years old and she felt a hundred.

*

It was better than the dæmons of children be safe, and nameless.

In Rohan an infant’s dæmon had no name at all. A dæmon would be given their first name – their child-name – when their girl or boy was old enough to name them. They would be given their true names when they settled.

Many boys and girls Éowyn knew chose one name when they were young and kept it until they were settled, or even after that. She didn’t understand how they could bear to. Her dæmon, unsettled, was as changeable as the clouds; how could he have so many shapes, and yet only one name?

She called him _Cloud_ sometimes. When she was very young she called him _Spot_ or _Birdie_. When she got older she called him _Patter_ after the noise his paws made on the bare earth. She called him _Silver_ after the way he glinted in the water as a fish.

Her brother Éomer’s dæmon settled not long after they lost their mother, settled in the shape of a sparrowhawk. She did not know then that he was young to have settled, too young. She was seven years old and he a giant to her.

She heard the men tell Éomer what an honour it was, for his dæmon to be given her true name by a king. As young as she was she knew that whatever honour he might gain from being named thus could never make up for what they had lost.

_Briar. Gorse. Heather_. For a year she named him for the plants that grew on the hills of Rohan. _Goldwine. Helm. Frea_ she named him after the kings of old. _Steel. Ice. Stone_ she named him for his hardness.

“It’s just as well you shall not have to pick his true name,” said Éomer, laughing, when she told him that his day-name had changed once again.

“How will she choose it?” said Éowyn, for it would not be Théoden King who would name him, but his dæmon.

She held her dæmon in her arms in the shape of a badger. It was summer and they stood near the stables. Her brother had just returned from a three-day hunt. 

“Through great thought and wisdom,” said Éomer. He had taken off his riding gloves and now he stretched out a hand. Tawnie flew to him, her eyes bright. “Once she knows what he is, his name will come to her.” He looked at Éowyn’s badger-dæmon and said, “what is it to be this month?”

Éowyn said, “Hero.”

Éowyn was thirteen. Her dæmon dubbed himself _Hero_ and remained Hero for almost half a year. Then he was given his true name.

*

When she felt strong enough to walk, she went, without leave, to find Merry.

She walked through the halls of the House of Healing, bracing herself against the wall, her dæmon balancing upon her shoulders, gripping with all the strength in his tiny body. He had always been a thing of teeth and sinew. To see him so weakened appalled her.

They had told her of the effect the Nazgul had on dæmons. They had told her, and she had thought not of herself but of Merry, who she had brought to the battleground. That he might lose something so vital on her account. She could not bear it.

When she came to his chamber she found he had a twin.

Though not a twin, of course. They were not even so alike. But it was so strange to her to see another of his kin. Perhaps she had not believe until that moment that there were others, a whole country full of them, as Merry claimed.

They were sitting upon the edge of Merry’s bed, their heads bent over some game of dice and cards. Merry’s dæmon lay at his side, weakened but not so weak as her own and seeing her Éowyn let out a gasp of relief. Her eyes were alert and her busy tail flicked in time with her thoughts.

The other halfing’s dæmon, a blue tit, fluttered back and forth between the bed and the window. It was she who was first to notice Éowyn, a ghost in the doorway. With a soft chirrup she alerted the others.

“My lady,” said Merry, breathily. 

And for a moment she saw herself through his eyes, hunched and pale, her dæmon a shadow of his former self.

“Merry,” she said. There were many things she wanted dearly to say, but she did not have the strength; and it struck her she had known him for only days. “How is your arm?”

He gripped it with his good hand. “Well, it works,” he said. “How is yours?”

“Healing,” said Éowyn. “And Celandine?”

Celandine lifted her head, and echoed, “healing.”

At the sound of her name Merry’s companion sat up straight, startled. Perhaps he had not know that Merry had given it away. But he said nothing.

“This is Pippin and Windflower,” Merry said, resting his injured hand upon Celandine’s back. “My cousin. Pippin, this is the Lady Éowyn.”

Pippin – yes – she remembered now. The kinsman he had wanted to ride out to protect. _He’s all alone in that place_ , she recalled him saying, _he must be so afraid. I have to go to him._

It did not look as if Pippin had needed protecting, in the end. He was clad as a knight of Gondor. There was surely a tale there, though she wouldn’t bid him tell it, at least not yet. So many tales, all of them happening at once.

“My lady,” said Pippin, gazing at her with new wonder and admiration. His expression turned doubtful and he said, “should you be up?”

“I am fit enough to stand,” said Éowyn.

Pippin’s bird-dæmon fluttered from his shoulder to sit beside Merry’s fox. “Are you going by Celandine now?” she said, probably not meaning Éowyn to hear, but her piping voice did not lend itself to a whisper.

Celandine raised her head and said, “temporarily.”

For a moment Éowyn faltered. She had thought Merry had given his dæmon’s name truly. But then she supposed she had not given hers truly. “I thought,” she said. “I thought Celandine was her true name?”

“Oh, it is,” said Merry. “It just – isn’t what I usually call her.”

“What do you usually call her?” said Éowyn.

It was Pippin who answered, swinging his legs cheerily as he did so. “Grumpy,” he said.

“Grumpy?” said Éowyn, puzzled.

“Pippin!” Merry shoved half-heartedly at Pippin’s shoulder, a fond chastisement that put her so much in mind of Théodred and her brother that her breath caught in her throat.

She said, “I do not understand.”

“Grumpy,” Merry repeated. When Éowyn still didn’t catch on he pointed at his chest with both hands and said, “because I’m Merry.”

Éowyn understood. And despite everything, for the first time in many days she began to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to lean heavily against the door frame, hiding her eyes.

“It’s not that funny,” said Celandine – or perhaps it should be Grumpy.

“Oh, my,” said Éowyn. “Oh, my.”

“Would you like to play?” said Pippin.

But before Éowyn could answered she was ambushed by a robed healer. “My lady, you should not be out of bed – you must rest, my lady,” said the healer, her bee-dæmon buzzing anxiously about her head.

“I’m well enough to walk,” Éowyn protested; but she thought of the concern writ across Merry’s face on seeing her, and let herself be gentled back to bed.

There she sat, her dæmon on her lap. She ran a hand down his soft, lanky back and realised she had not introduced him to Pippin. And then she realised: she no longer knew his name.

“Who are you?” she said to him.

Her dæmon raised his head and for the first time since the battleground he spoke. “I am,” he said. “I am.”

*

Éowyn was fourteen. All she had left of her parents were their names and the tales that were told of them. She no longer remembered their faces. She barely remembered her mother’s voice. She could not suffer lies.

“Say that again!”

She stood before the hall, her hands balled into fists, her dæmon Hero in the shape of a hissing cat.

The boy’s name was Erian. His dæmon, like her own unnamed, danced around his feet in the shape of a squawking crow. The boys around him laughed. “Your father was a coward and he died for it.”

“Take back your words.” If she’d had a sword she would have drawn it, but those with unnamed dæmons did not carry swords, even if they were not courtly maidens.

Erian put his hands on his swaggering hips and said, “no. It’s the truth.”

“Call my father a coward once more and I shall kill you,” she said, and Erian’s horseshoe of delighted boys laughed still harder.

If his own father heard of what he had said he would be in trouble. He might even be beaten for his disrespect. But he knew her well enough to know that she was too proud to tell. She solved her own problems.

Erian said, “he was a coward.”

Which of them pounced first, Éowyn or Hero, she could not say. But they threw themselves at him, pinned him to the earth with ferocity and sheer shock and there she struck him again and again while Hero grappled with his dæmon, changing from cat to eagle to rat to dog to wolf. A screech of a bird and the smoking blood of a dæmon was spilled upon the earth and Erian howled like a wounded beast.

“Take it back!” Éowyn banged his head against the ground. “Take it back take it back take it back!”

Hands gripped her, another of the boys wrenching her off his friend, and she threw back her elbow and bloodied his nose. She had learned many good tricks from her brother and she had his legs out from under him before he knew what was coming.

Leaping from his prey Hero dived into the shape of a polecat and onto her new attacker’s dog-dæmon, where he sank in his teeth and bit until boy and dæmon screamed.

They overpowered her eventually, of course; and in the absence of her parents they took her to her brother. She stood before him bloody and growing with pride, clutching a hank of blond hair and a settled dæmon.

Her dæmon was black and brown of fur, his tail swishing in the thrill of combat, his white snout smeared with blood that drifted drop by drop into the air like smoke.

Éomer looked at them both, at Hero’s snarl and Éowyn’s smug grin, and knew at once what had happened. He said, “what are we going to do with you.”

*

The Lord Faramir’s dæmon was a falcon, like her brother’s sparrow hawk in shape but smaller, sleeker, darker. A beautiful bird. Many in Rohan said that a beautiful dæmon meant a beautiful soul but she did not believe it; she had known many with swans, songbirds, long-haired cats for dæmons that were vicious inside.

The third time they met, he held out his dæmon to her upon his fist and said, “his name is Niphredil. I will trust you with this.”

“A strange name,” Éowyn said.

“It means _willow tree_ , in the language of the elves,” he told her. “It is the custom here, to name dæmons in the elven tongue.”

“Strange that you would forsake your own,” said Éowyn. She knew that she had slighted him, by not returning his trust; but she knew not what to say.

Niphredil’s beak clicked, and he said to Éowyn’s dæmon, “what may I call you?”

For she had given no name to Faramir, neither a true name nor a day-name. When they had first met Faramir had told her to call his dæmon Swift and she had nodded gravely and said it was apt, and offered no name in return.

Éowyn’s dæmon fluffed up his thick fur and said, “I have no name.”

Niphredil’s bead-bright, sharp eyes turned to Éowyn. Faramir, too, was looking at her in confusion and mounting horror. “He had a name,” Éowyn explained. “He left it on the field.”

“I am nameless,” said Éowyn’s dæmon. “As a child I am nameless again.” He curled, on the grass, into a circle of black fur.

Faramir made no attempt to touch her. Nor did Niphredil go to her dæmon. At first neither of them spoke.

Niphredil said, “I must call you something. What can I call you?”

Éowyn’s dæmon raised his head. His voice was still shaky from what had almost become of him. “I am. I am a polecat. Yes. Polecat.”

And so Faramir called her dæmon _Polecat_ , and she liked it; alone, she called him nothing at all.

*

Éowyn was scolded for her brawling by her uncle the king, but she thought she saw in his eyes a glimmer of pride; and when she stood before him five days later, awaiting her name, he was golden with it.

Nearby stood Éomer, ever armed but clad not for war but for celebration. She had not been present for his naming. The role their father ought to have taken, the role of witness, had instead been taken by their cousin Théodred. 

There were always three, at a dæmon-naming: one to give the name, one to receive it, and a third to hear it. The child, their mother and their father.

She had not been present for his naming and he had not told her the name he was given, for those with unnamed dæmons should not hear the names of dæmons. He had whispered it in her hear four nights before; _Synnove_ , gift of the sun. It suited her golden-brown feathers and her yellow eyes.

Théoden’s dæmon stepped forward, a soft, sharp sound of hooves upon the earthen floor. A kingly dæmon, a white horse with flowing mane, a collar of silver upon her neck. Her name was Eostre, of the dawn, and she wore it freely. When men saw her beside the king they’d whisper it – _Eostre – Eostre – Eostre_ – it sounded as the wind.

Stepping forward, Éowyn’s dæmon, once Hero, now nameless again, bowed his brown and white head in solemn awe. Eostre closed her eyes and bowed in return.

“Dæmon of Éowyn, daughter of ThÉowyn and Eomund,” she pronounced in her voice like starlight. “I name you – Renweard.”

Renweard. That was to be his name, _home-guardian_. The first thought to cross Éowyn’s mind was _she might as well have named him Housewife_.

Her dæmon, her newly-named Renweard, bowed in a decorous manner and thanked Eostre-King for her wisdom and kindness, but Éowyn could not keep her sneer of disappointment from her face. Only at Synnove’s piercing look did she compose herself, and smile like a courteous maiden.

“You do not like it,” Éomer said to her afterwards, at her feast.

Renweard – if that was his name – sat upon her shoulders and said nothing. “I suppose,” Éowyn said, “we might grow to like it.”

Éomer laughed. “You do not have to be polite to me, sister.”

“I would not disrespect the judgement of the king’s dæmon,” said Éowyn.

“There are many who do not like their dæmons’ true names,” said Éomer. “Just as there are many who do not like their dæmons’ shapes. Remember the song of Caflice,” he added with gravely furrowed brow.

Éowyn laughed, for she remembered the song of Caflice well from their childhood. A frivolous song, about a boy who hid in a cave for a year and a day because his dæmon had taken the shape of a pig and he could not bear his friends to see.

“I like his shape very much,” she said. Fearsome, but not so large as to keep her from riding a horse. For a man or woman of the Mark to have a dæmon who could neither ride upon a horse nor run beside one was the worst of fates.

“So do I,” said Éomer. “But I hope there is gentleness in it.”

“What do you mean?” said Éowyn.

“He settled with blood upon his teeth,” said Éomer. “I fear what that may bring.”

Éowyn stepped closer and glaring up at him said, “if I were a boy you would say it would bring greatness.”

She did not wait for his reply.

*

When her cousin Théodred asked her what he might call her dæmon now, she told him curtly, “Guard.” 

*

It was easier, in the end, to find armour for Merry’s dæmon than for Merry himself. Fox-dæmons were far more commonplace in Rohan than hobbits.

Poor Merry looked most uneasy, when she put the bundle of leather and chainmail into his arms. The thought that his dæmon might need armour troubled him; the thought that on the battleground someone might try to hurt her.

He said, “I don’t know how to put it on.”

“I will help,” said Éowyn, knowing that she could only help so much.

She knelt beside him as he struggled with the leather straps, doing her best to guide him with her words. Her own dæmon’s armour was entirely different, of course, but when it was first made she, too, had struggled to dress him. She had practiced.

“Those go under her legs,” she said as he fumbled.

His fox-dæmon lifted one leg and then the other, patiently allowing access. “Like this?” said Merry. “That can’t be right. That’s not comfortable.”

“A touch higher up,” said Éowyn. “And tighten the strap.”

Merry tightened the strap. “It feels strange.”

“You’ll grow used to it,” said Éowyn.

Sitting back on his heels, Merry said to his dæmon, “how’s that?”

The fox-dæmon danced a little jig, testing the feel of her new armour. “Tighten around my front legs,” she said; the first words she had spoken since they were introduced.

Éowyn’s own dæmon, her Banan, sat watching, swishing his long tail. There was little he could do to help, for he had no fingers.

“There,” said the fox-dæmon. “That’s right.”

The mail, then. It went on over her head and she shuddered at the cold feel of it, but endured. “It’s not too heavy, is it?” said Merry.

“It’s fine,” said his fox-dæmon.

Stepping forward Banan said, “you must say, if it’s to much. In the heat of battle you cannot be encumbered.

The fox-dæmon looked down at herself. She chased her tail in a few quick circles and said, “no – it’s fine.” She looked up at Éowyn with an excited fox smile.

They were a charming pair, Éowyn thought. She and Banan were not inclined to like fox-dæmons, as a rule, but this one was sweet, and strong. This one, she thought, she could ride with.

*

Éowyn was seventeen, her dæmons three years named. She felt grown and yet not grown.

Éowyn like all her kindred had been put on a horse as soon as she could walk. She could ride as she breathed. She had taught herself to fight with her fists as easily as she could ride.

This, then, was her new purpose: to drill, and drill, and drill with a sword until it was an extension of her own being, as her horse, as her dæmon. She practiced with her brother, with her cousin, for there were no shieldmaidens left to teach her.

“You must learn to fight two ways,” Théodred told her. “If you are fighting a man, keep your mind on him and only him. If you are fighting an Orc, never leave your dæmon unguarded.

It made her shudder to think of it, and she knew there was no shame in that. Éomer she knew still shuddered, repulsed at the mere thought of his dæmon being harmed.

“Your dæmon is your strength, but he is also your weak point,” Théodred told her.

“He is my strength and my weak point,” Éowyn said.

Théodred’s dæmon was a horse like his father’s, but bay and glossy. Éowyn did not know her true name and never would. They called her _Grace_ for her movements. It was small wonder that Théodred had arrived at such a philosophy of dæmons; Grace was strong, larger by far than most dæmons, but what a target she would make in battle.

They sparred, and after they had sparred Éowyn sat upon the grass, fingering her tight, clammy braided hair.

“You learn well,” Grace told her.

“Thank you,” said Éowyn. It was a rarity, to be so addressed, and she considered it an honour.

“Tis a pity you will not make a warrior,” said Grace.

Rising to his four paws, Renweard said, “we may yet.”

Théodred laughed at the fury in his voice and said, “you are a bold one, little Guard.”

*

Merry studied not her face, hidden as it was beneath her helm, but her dæmon, and Éowyn wondered what he might be thinking.

In his armour, Banan might not be so easily recognised. It was leather, a deep, dark brown, and the helm covered his head but for the lower jaw – so that he might bite – and twin slits for his bright eyes. Spikes ran down his back and the helm bore leathery teeth. He would fashion himself into a miniature wyrm.

But still, the ways of dæmons were strange and Merry might still know him. Certainly he had been staring for long moments. Éowyn wondered: was he thinking how many polecat-dæmons there might be in such a muster of horsemen – or was he wondering only if he should acknowledge her?

Éowyn wondered: did she want to be recognised – now, by him?

Merry looked to his fox-dæmon, who sat safe in her harness upon his back. Her amber-brown eyes remained fixed on Banan. Dæmons had a way of knowing each other that she understood but did not herself experience.

She murmured something in his ear, and together they were resolved, or near enough. Hesitant, Merry said, “thank-you, sir – though I do not know your name.”

“Do you know?” said Éowyn. “Then call me Dernhelm.”

Merry mouthed the name to himself and Éowyn wondered just what he and his dæmon had decided.

He cocked his head towards his dæmon and said, to her surprise and slightly to her fear, “this is Celandine. I’ll trust you with this.”

For a split second she froze, as she had not frozen in many years. She did not dare look to her own dæmon. She could not refuse the trust that had been placed in her and yet she could not – she could not.

She said, “this is Banan.”

*

Éowyn was twenty-three, and had few left she could trust.

Those with any power were beholden to a king who they could no longer trust. Those that she could trust had no power. She had her brother, and her cousin, and her women, always her women.

Éomer and Théodred would not – dare not – speak out against the will of the king. The king was not himself. Éowyn had taken it at first for age but Eostre had grown dull and listless; when the people called out to her she no longer seemed to hear them, and so they no longer called out.

Her women in private would speak bitterly of what had become of their people. In public they and their dæmons had sharp eyes and ears. They heard and saw much and so Éowyn heard and saw much. But they were powerless to do more than watch.

Her women, she knew all of their dæmons by their true names and they knew hers by his. She had learned, now that she was no longer a child, to be a lady of Rohan and that meant knowing when to be quiet, and watchful. It meant knowing when to wait.

It was not in her nature to wait. It was in her nature to strike.

“Do not think I do not see you.”

Her knife, at his throat. His eyes, darting as if confused; but his dæmon, alert and focused on her, and she knew it for an act. “See me, my lady?”

She saw those eyes on her; and when she did not her women did, and warned her. “I see your eyes on me.”

He spread his hands as if he bewildered innocence. “I know not what you mean.”

She could not accuse him so directly. Her face burned with shame at the thought; and it was vile, that she should be the one shamed. At her ankles her Renweard’s mouth was open in a snarl.

His little dæmon’s gaze remained fixed on Éowyn. Her tongue, black and flattened, flicked out as if to taste the air. Not a true snake, some stranger worm, but he bade people call her _Attor_ , venom, though she had none. 

Éowyn lowered her knife. Renweard did not cover his teeth. “You will not speak of this to the king,” she commanded.

“Of course,” he said, though she had no doubt that he would.

She did not hold, as so many did, to the belief that cold-blooded dæmons were false by nature; she knew many warm-blooded dæmons who were false and Edris, one of her women, her dæmon was a brown lizard and Éowyn would trust both with her life. But this one, this Attor, Renweard had long despised and she trusted him.

Éowyn stepped closer by him. “If I were a man,” she said, “I would cut your throat.”

She left him to think on it.

*

Théodred called her dæmon Guard one day after a bout and Éowyn said, “no.”

“No?” he echoed.

“Not Guard,” she said.

“You would change it again?” he said, amusement quirking his lips. He thought this a childish fancy she had grown out of, this changing and changing of her dæmon’s day-name. “What shall I call him?”

“Call him Banan,” she said, and his face grew troubled.

“Are you sure?” he said.

She would have them call her dæmon Banan, _slayer_ , a name for a warrior’s dæmon. “Yes. I am sure.”

*

More likely than not, they would all soon be dead. By all rights those that could not, would not, die on the battlefield ought to lie down and weep at their cruel fate. Instead in the Houses of Healing the people would pretend that everyday life had resumed.

But there was fear behind their smiles and their words, a cold tension, a brittle quality, for at any moment it might snap, it might all fall. 

The only true master of pretending was Merry. One might almost think he was not troubled by what had befallen him, the ease with which he smiled and talked of normal things. His dæmon was calm, almost stately now that she could walk.

They met in the gardens, and Éowyn said, “how is your arm?”

And Merry said, “better – better.” He asked after her health and then they sat together and for a while they said very little.

Merry was not troubled by the nameless state of her dæmon. When she told him that his name was no longer _Banan_ he nodded as if he understood. Perhaps he did. He had renamed his own dæmon, in his own fashion.

They sat quietly for long minutes; and then she asked him, how it was that he was no troubled.

Merry laid his hand upon his dæmon’s head. She sat at his side upon the stone seat, her busy tail swinging freely through the air. He said, “it’s the way of my people, I suppose.”

“To be untroubled?” she said.

“No – no,” he said. “To pretend not to be troubled, I suppose – but that isn’t it either. I don’t know how to explain. Gandalf says we are resilient, but I don’t know about that.”

That was another strange quality he had, the way he would talk of Wizards as if they were old friends of his family. She tried sometimes, idly, to picture the Shire of the Halflings, that faraway country where tiny people lived in holes in the ground, where everything was built to Merry and Pippin’s scale, where they smoked leaves and were friends with Wizards and were unburdened by troubles.

She could not quite believe it was a real place. Such strange times had befallen them, when kings walked out of ancient legends and elves out of songs and halflings out of fairy tales.

She said, “but you _are_ troubled?”

“I’m scared out of my wits, if you must know,” he said. And his eyes, and Grumpy’s eyes, were drawn inexorably to the eastern horizon. “I only just got him back – and now he’s gone again.”

Such sadness, in his voice. She wanted to tell him that Pippin could look after himself, that he was strong and did not need protecting, for she believed it. She did not know him as Merry did, and she thought perhaps that was how she could see the strength in him. Merry still saw his cousin as the child he had once been, and was no longer.

Merry had told her that when they had been parted, Pippin’s dæmon had yet to settle. She was settled now, settled in the fire and noise and terror of the siege.

She could not find the words to say these things. She said, “I am sorry.” In her lap her dæmon shifted, and in a soft voice echoed her words.

Merry thanked them both; and then to Éowyn he said, “are you going to give him another name?”

*

Of the four who rode to Edoras, none had dæmons at their sides and so strange had grown the times that this did not even strike Éowyn has odd.

Of the four who rode to Edoras, only Aragorn had a dæmon but Éowyn did not meet her for some days. And yet she looked upon him and knew at once what kind of man he was, and knew that she would never know fully what kind of man he was, and she trusted him.

She looked upon him and thought him the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Not the beauty of the fair youths she might marry but a beauty that could come only with age and experience. A hard beauty, like an uncut diamond.

Robed in white she looked upon him and wanted to say _take me with you, bear me into the world of men, away from this place._

He treated her with courtesy, with kindness, and with no affection; why should he treat her with affection? He did not know her. And yet when he looked upon her she had the sensation of being known. He asked, in the most courteous manner, what he might call her dæmon.

“Banan.” The name came to her lips almost unbidden.

The name _Renweard_ , his true name, had not passed her lips since – she did not recall. She had begun to call him Banan, his warrior’s name, even when they were alone, even within the confines of her mind he was always _Banan_.

“Banan,” he repeated with easy understanding. If he thought the day-name a strange one for a lady’s dæmon he gave no outward sign of it. “My own dæmon is scouting to the north. She will return in due course. You may call her Theryn.”

“What is she?” said Éowyn. Was it rude to ask? She did not know. She had never met one like him before, one who could send his dæmon away.

Aragorn said simply, “an eagle.”

*

“It must be very inconvenient,” said Merry. He had taken from his pocket his pipe, and now he was filling it. “His not having a name.”

“The Lord Faramir calls him Polecat,” said Éowyn. In her lap, her dæmon raised his head, watching Merry’s little ritual with some curiosity.

“Polecat,” said Merry. “May I?”

“If you wish it,” said Éowyn.

“Only if _you_ wish it,” said Merry.

“I wish,” said Éowyn. “I wish only for him to have a true name.”

Her dæmon, rising onto his paws, stretching out to inspect the crumbly dried leaves in Merry’s pouch. Merry held some out upon his palm for the polecat-dæmon to sniff.

“Then I shan’t call you anything,” he said to her dæmon, “until you find it.”

They were sitting together upon the grass. Merry’s dæmon, already stronger, was on her feet, nosing at a bud of clover. The weakness that had been put upon her on the field of battle was passing and soon she would be almost as she had been when Éowyn had first met her, bright and new and young.

Her own dæmon would never be the same again, not without his name.

Merry lit his pipe and began to smoke, which he always did with no small relish. Perhaps that was the key to being unburdened by troubles, this delight in the small pleasures of life. Éowyn ran her hand down her dæmon’s sleek, dark back.

Rustling footsteps on the grass behind them, and there he was, the man himself, the steward. His own dæmon Niphredil Éowyn could not see; and then there he was, coasting down to settle on his man’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” said Merry, and put his pipe in his mouth.

“Good morning,” Faramir echoed. He traced the rising line of smoke with his eyes and said, “I thought you were saving it.”

“Life’s too short for that,” said Merry around his pipe.

“Very true,” said Faramir, almost laughing.

Merry had a way of making those in the Houses of Healing laugh despite the the darkness that had come over the city. A strange gift or perhaps just a good sense of humour. He took his pipe from his mouth and said, “would you like to try some?”

Faramir sat, joining them upon the grass, and held out his hand. Merry put the pipe in it. Faramir brought it to his lips – and coughed with such passion that Éowyn could not help but laugh.

“It is certainly,” he said, “pungent.”

“I’ll have you know it’s the good stuff,” said Merry. He offered the pipe to Éowyn.

“I must decline,” she said, still smiling in spite of herself.

Faramir’s dæmon had flown from his shoulder to the grass and now stood by Merry’s fox-dæmon, who gave him a curious sniff. They had the aspect, as dæmons who had known each other for a short while sometimes did, of already being old friends.

In her lap Éowyn’s dæmon stirred; then charged with sudden determination, he climbed from her skirt and took his first halting steps since the field, halting steps across the grass to join his fellows.

*

“Lalorn,” Frodo read from the book. “That means elm. How about that?”

“Perhaps,” said Éowyn. She could not quite bring herself to say no to any of his suggestions, bar those that were altogether _wrong_. He was doing her such a service and she had no way to repay him.

“Alright,” he said, and noted it down. His fingers were stained with ink. H had written down many such names and Éowyn knew none of them were the right one. “Let’s see, now,” he said, paging on through the list of words.

It had been Éowyn who had suggested they look at plants, inspired by the name of his own dæmon and by Merry’s Celandine. She did not now know how to say she had changed her mind.

“Are you sure you want a plant name?” he said suddenly; and she was sure he knew perfectly well that his carefully composed list wasn’t going to be used.

“I’m not sure of anything,” said Éowyn.

“Fair enough,” said Frodo. He put aside the book and took up his tea.

But he did not seem troubled by the wasting of his time. If she did not know better, she would have said he did not seem troubled at all. She had heard others comment on the remarkable strength of halflings, that this one and his esquire had travelled so far down such dark paths and come out smiling. Such strength and courage.

It was not courage, exactly. It was something else, that aspect of his people Merry had struggled to describe, their way of having troubles but not being burdened by them.

Éowyn knew what it was, to have such great sadness and to wear it on the inside, like a secret. She knew what it was and for a moment she wanted to say to him _pray do not, do not keep it within; tell them before it is too late_.

But then she thought, _if he let out all of his sadness we might all drown in it_. A humbling thought.

She said, “do all –” Not halflings, for that was not how they named themselves; she of all people should understand the importance of names. “Do all hobbits wear their dæmon’s name so openly?”

“Oh – yes,” said Frodo. “Yes, I suppose we don’t really bother with all that business.”

He made it sound such a trifle. It was curious, for she had always supposed that dæmons were the one constant, the same in all kingdoms of men. Then she had learned that outside Rohan they were given their names when they were born; and far away in the north they had no day-names at all.

“Your people must be brave indeed,” she said.

“No, I shouldn’t think so,” said Frodo. “I suppose it’s more that where we come from, there isn’t much to be afraid of.” Flipping back a few pages in the book, he said, “what about _Bronwe_?”

“What does it mean?” said Éowyn.

“Endurance,” said Frodo. “Means endurance.”

She liked that; but it was not his name. When she found his name, she was certain she would know. She did not like to say as much, in case she was wrong. “No. But thank-you.”

“Back to the drawing board,” he said. Éowyn was not sure what that meant, and didn’t ask.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, perhaps looking for more plants, there came a soft knock upon the door. “Ah,” said Frodo, pausing in his paging. “I think we’ve been discovered.”

“Discovered?” said Éowyn.

No answer forthcoming to the knock, the door began to open and into the room poked the long, reddish-brown snout of a dæmon. It was followed a moment later by the round and bashful face of the other Ringbearer.

He looked at Éowyn with wide-eyed, terrified awe. He looked at Frodo and said, “there’s where you’ve got to.”

“Good afternoon, Sam,” said Frodo, fondly accepting the interruption. “Do you mind?” he said to Éowyn.

“Mind? No,” said Éowyn.

“Tea?” said Frodo to the other hobbit, who shuffled into the room at the heels of his unabashedly delighted dæmon.

Sam climbed onto a chair in that awkward and endearingly childlike way hobbits had of interacting with man-sized furniture. His dæmon scrabbled at the chair beside him with her paws, struggling, and he heaved her up.

So seated, she flopped her paws onto the table top and eyed Éowyn’s dæmon curiously. Éowyn’s dæmon did not approach her.

Here was another thing strange about hobbits, and one that Éowyn found herself entirely taken aback by. Sam was, to the best of her understanding, Frodo’s esquire – or his servant – or something along those lines. And yet Frodo’s manner with him was entirely familiar. No noble of Rohan would tolerate such intrusive behaviour and yet there Frodo was, pouring his servant tea.

Though perhaps this was not the oddness of hobbits so much as the strangeness of what they had been through. Under enough pressure any barrier could and would collapse. She had learned that lesson herself.

“Sam, the lady Éowyn,” said Frodo. “Éowyn, Sam and Harebell Gamgee.”

And there she was, entrusted with the name of his dæmon, just like that. It made her uneasy, all the more so for she could not reciprocate.

Frodo slid Sam’s tea towards him and he took it gratefully. “What’s that you’re doing?” he said.

Frodo looked to Éowyn. And she might not have told him, had she not known the name of his dæmon. He had assented, albeit silently, to Frodo telling her and so he had placed deepest trust in both of them. She owned him some trust in return. “We are naming my dæmon,” she said.

“Naming him?” said Sam.

Éowyn’s dæmon, who had curled into a circle upon the table, raised his head and said, “I lost my name.”

Sam and his dæmon exchanged a look. She said in a sweet and gentle voice, “how’d you do that?”

“Hare,” said Sam, placing a hand on her red-gold head, and she said nothing more.

“I would rather not say,” said Éowyn solemnly, and Sam nodded solemnly in return as if he understood.

They were all very understanding, these hobbits, despite the bizarre nature of the problem at hand. Though perhaps they had got used to coming upon things they did not understand. Perhaps they presumed this a normal thing to befall dæmons, outside their own country.

“We’re looking for an Elvish name,” said Frodo. “We thought perhaps a plant name, but we haven’t had much luck.”

“Why Elvish?” said Sam.

“I wanted,” said Éowyn, “something different – and new – and venerable.”

“Ah, I see,” said Sam. “Well, my lady, I can’t fault you, for if I had to pick a new name for Hare I’d pick an elven one.”

“Thank you,” said Éowyn, unsure what else to say.

“May I look?” said Sam, motioning at the book. Frodo slid it across the table to him.

“If not a plant,” he said, “then what sort of name?”

“I know not,” said Éowyn. ”I only know that I shall know it when I find it.”

Uncurling himself her dæmon said, “something new – and light – and fresh.”

“Like the spring?” said Frodo’s moth-dæmon.

“Perhaps,” said Éowyn.

“I was named to be a warrior,” said her dæmon. “I no longer wish that.”

Frodo said nothing, but he nodded, his eyes heavy with understanding.

All the while they had spoken, Sam had been leafing through the book of Elvish names and now he stopped, and ran his fingers lightly down the page. Éowyn had not imagined, when he had asked for the book, that he knew how to read it.

He said, “what about this one?” and turned the book about so Frodo could look, pointing at the name he’d chosen. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Frodo looked at the page. “There’s a thought.” To Éowyn, he said, “Ninniach.”

“Ninniach,” Éowyn echoed. She liked the sound of it, the way it moved through her mouth.

Frodo looked to Sam. Sam looked for a moment mortified. He said, “rainbow. It means a rainbow.”

Rising to his four paws, his strength not fully regained, her dæmon said, “Ninniach.”

And it was his name. Only on hearing him say it did Éowyn know it. _Ninniach_. Yes. It fit. It had not always been his name – he had had so many names – but he would have no other. “Yes,” she said to Sam. “Thank-you.”

That was not adequate as praise or thanks for the gift he had given her, but she knew not what else to say. She could not put what she felt into words. The clouds had parted and she could see the sun. For the first time since before the battleground she felt whole, and new, and young. As a child newly named.

Frodo began to laugh. “Oh, Sam,” he said. “Never change.”

“What?” said Sam, despite everything indignant.

“Thank-you,” Éowyn said to him again. “I owe you – a great favour.” What kind of favour she might pay him she could not imagine. She had no idea what one such as himself might _want_.

“That’s alright, it was no trouble,” said Sam.

Her dæmon, her newly-named Ninniach, paced across the table top to properly greet his Harebell, greet and thank her. They touched noses, and Éowyn thought, _he has been born again, not in blood but in friendship_.

With a sigh, Frodo closed the book of names. “Have a biscuit, Sam,” she said.

*

She sought out Faramir high above the city, the wind picking at his hair, his Niphredil in the air overhead. The sky was a deep grey.

At her approach, her dæmon born in her arms, Niphredil flew to his man’s shoulder and murmured in his ear. “My lady,” said Faramir.

“His name is Ninniach,” said Éowyn. “I will trust you with this.”

“Ninniach,” Faramir echoed. He did not ask her how she had come by the new name, and she did not tell him, yet. “And what shall I call him?”

Éowyn had not yet chosen a day-name for her Ninniach. Before she might say so, with a grumbling the rain that had been threatening to fall all afternoon came all at once, driving them back from the walls, beneath the eaves of the citadel.

Water pooled in the flagstones, bubbling and frothing, washing the ground dark and clean. Éowyn stood beneath Faramir’s cloak and in her arms her dæmon twisted, gazing up at her; and she knew what he was thinking.

“Rain,” she said. “Call him Rain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
> **Éowyn and Ninniach ("Banan"/"Hero"/"Renweard"):** [polecat](http://ichef.bbci.co.uk/wwfeatures/wm/live/1600_640/images/live/p0/2g/hn/p02ghn9t.jpg).  
>  **Éomer and Synnove ("Tawnie"):** sparrowhawk.  
>  **Théoden and Eostre:** [white mare](http://img.hb.aicdn.com/6ffd961d680143950f659cfbf6bb6189182e017e1ab57-0cq2IX_fw658).  
>  **Théodred and "Grace":** [bay mare](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bay_\(horse\)#/media/File:BayMare.jpg).  
>  **Grima and "Attor":** [slow worm](https://53744bf91d44b81762e0-fbbc959d4e21c00b07dbe9c75f9c0b63.ssl.cf3.rackcdn.com/media/06/062851CB-DB0F-4D65-843C-E7298127D151/Presentation.Large/Slow-worm.jpg).  
>  **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).  
>  **Sam and Harebell:** [red cocker spaniel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Bojars%27s_english_cocker_spaniel.jpg).  
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Grumpy"):** [red fox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_-_British_Wildlife_Centre_\(17429406401\).jpg).  
>  **Aragorn and Nanwë ("Theryn"):** [ white tailed eagle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White-tailed_eagle#/media/File:White_tailed_eagle_raftsund_square_crop.jpg).  
>  **Pippin and Windflower:** [blue tit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_blue_tit#/media/File:Eurasian_blue_tit_Lancashire.jpg).  
> 


End file.
